


Follow the Example of Severus Snape

by PandoraHD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23329903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraHD/pseuds/PandoraHD
Summary: Harry Potter is dead, Voldemort is dead, the war had been won, yet everything was not as it should be. In an attempt to right what is wrong, Hermione travels back in time, follows the example of Severus Snape and goes deep undercover in the Death Eater organisation, going darker than she had ever thought possible, with one goal in mind: keep Harry Potter alive.
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger & Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger & Rosier Sr.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1: The Beginning

Chapter 1

It was dark in the Lestrange dungeons, an impenetrable darkness that seemed to go on endlessly. She could feel the coldness of a damp breeze, knew that there had to be some sort of window, some sort of connection to the outside word, and yet all she could see was darkness. Perhaps she was imagining it, perhaps the darkness was an escape to distract her from the twisted screams echoing in the room. The screams of the poor muggle that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps losing herself in the darkness was a way of shielding herself. The darkness hid what was going on, the darkness hid the perpetrator, the reason why the muggle was screaming so desperately. The darkness allowed her to hide from herself, from the knowledge that she was controlling the wand, she was torturing the muggle. She, a muggleborn. 

Hermione had lost count of how long she had been standing there, how long the muggle had been under the cruciatus curse. It had to be long though. He was starting to quiet down, curling in on himself, rocking back and forth in a vain attempt at self-comfort. He wouldn’t last much longer, whenever they reached this point it was only a matter of minutes before they gave up, before their bodies couldn’t take anymore. 

“Hermione,” murmured a deep voice, quiet, yet somehow heard over the muggle’s whimpering. 

“I know,” she replied, releasing the Crucio, “the Dark Lord wants information.” 

She always hated this part. Legillimence was a complicated piece of magic to begin with, looking into a sound mind was difficult enough, delving into a mind that was nearly shattered from extensive use of the cruciatus curse was almost impossible. She had to do it before it was too late. She had to find the exact moment where the mind was too exhausted by the strain to resist, yet not ruined enough to not make any sense. It was an art. An art she had perfected in her years of service.

Hermione waved her wand, not batting an eye when the sound of chains dragging across the stone floor echoed in the cell. The muggle was dragged by his hands into a standing position, his head hanging limply between his elevated arms. Her footsteps sounded loud in her ears as she walked up to the poor human being. She grimaced at the grimy feeling of the muggle’s hair as she grabbed a hold of it and lifted his head. He had green eyes, nowhere near as stunning as the pair of green eyes she had once been so fond of, but familiar enough to steel her resolve. She had a reason for doing this.   
Hermione looked deep into his eyes, uttering a quiet “legillimence,” before letting the stream of memories rush into her. 

When it was over, it seemed to her as if she had experienced the man’s entire life, from his first memory as a child to the sight of herself standing before him, a harbinger of death as she withdrew from his mind. His death sentence was signed the minute she had extracted herself, taking a step back and letting the solidly built figure behind her step forward. Hermione closed her eyes when a bright green light shot from the tip of her companion’s wand. She had never learned to deal with the sight of them collapsing in a lifeless heap. As much as she closed her eyes to the world around her though, she couldn’t escape the sickening sound of the emaciated body falling to the floor, nor the rattling of the chains jerking as they stopped the body’s descent midfall. 

One less muggle to taint the world.   
One more drop of blood to add to her already dripping hands. 

May 3rd, 1998

Hermione had always been a person who thrived in a structured environment. She liked to plan for every eventuality, both in her personal life and in her school life. She was always prepared, and the few occasions when she was taken by surprise had become fewer and far between as she had grown older. Of course, every adventure she had been a part of with Harry and Ron, had always come as a surprise, but she always sought to prepare herself for these adventures in her schoolwork. Her insufferable, know-it all tendencies were a necessity, and had more than once served to bring Hermione and her friends out of a pinch. 

She had been prepared for weeks for their inevitable abandonment of the safety of the Burrow. She had been aware that they couldn’t stay in the protective, although oppressive, darkness of Grimmauld Place, had been ready for the move from the moment they had set foot in the house. She had been prepared for doing whatever it took to protect Harry, to hide his identity, to keep from spilling any vital information, even under the duress of torture. Hermione had not been prepared for the devastating loss they would suffer in the Battle of Hogwarts. 

They had won. By the skin of their teeth, they had won and suffered great losses in the process. The Weasley twins, Tonks and Lupin, Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were all dead, a few among the many who had died. Ron, dear Ron who had finally managed to get his head out of his arse to see that Hermione was an attractive and kissable girl, was gone. Killed by a blasting curse straight to the chest. Worst of all, Harry was dead. Had died while taking down Voldemort, a feat that had taken such a toll on his body, on his magical core, that he had slumped down, his green eyes hollow and dead the moment he had achieved his task. 

It seemed impossible that her two best friends, the boys she had grown up with, who had been by her side since their first year at Hogwarts could just disappear in the flash of a moment. She had always imagined that if they were to die, they would all die as they had been from the age of 11, together. Yet, they had left her behind to suffer in a world that seemed all the lesser without them.   
She had sought refuge in the Headmaster’s office, the only quiet place in the castle where she could find an escape from all the death and sorrow that the halls and its inhabitants seemed entrenched with. Professor McGonagall had been kind enough to giver her the password, her eyes shining with pity as she did so. Hermione had been locked up there the entire day, with no company other than herself, a few snoring portraits and a pair of twinkling and penetrating blue eyes. 

She had been ignoring him ever since crossing the doorstep, unable to look him in the eye, to admit the severity of the sacrifice required to fulfil his great plan. Although, she had no doubt he was aware of it, that he had always been aware of the sacrifices that, in the end, would be required of them all. 

“My condolences, Miss Granger.” Dumbledore broke the silence. “You have suffered many losses, I think.” 

“As have all of us.” Replied Hermione, gritting her teeth as she fought the fresh onslaught of tears that threatened to overwhelm her. She was so sick of crying. 

“Indeed, it’s fortunate that we have friends and family to turn to in such a sorrowful time.” 

“I don’t have any family left,” Hermione muttered, biting viciously at her lip as she finally put words to the thought that had been churning around in her mind for the last 24 hours. 

“Now that isn’t true.” Dumbledore commented. “As far as I am aware, more than one member of the Weasley family still lives, wouldn’t you consider them to be family?” 

“Of course, I do, I will always consider them family, but we were never as close as—as close as Harry, Ron and I were.” 

“While you might not have been as close to them then, you might grow closer to them in your shared grief. I am sure that they miss them just as much as you do, can you not find any comfort in that?” His blue eyes looked down on her kindly. 

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Hermione sighed, leaning back in her seat, drawing up her legs and wrapping her arms around them. “Harry did so much for us all, it’s not fair that he isn’t alive to enjoy the result of all that he has done.” 

“The world is an unfair place, Miss Granger, and it often seems as if the least deserving of us reap the best rewards. Fortunately, life is full of surprises.” His blue eyes seemed to brighten impossibly. “Incidentally, I have a proposition for you, one that could bring your friends back to this world and give Harry the life he has always deserved.” 

Hermione drew in a sharp breath, scrambling to her feet and moving to stand beneath the frame of Dumbledore’s portrait. “What do you mean?”

He gestured to the enormous claw-footed desk. “Open the top left drawer.” 

She moved towards it, her fingers trembling as she reached out to grab a hold of the wooden handle, slowly drawing the drawer out from its slot. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes when she saw what was contained in the desk. 

“They were destroyed,” whispered Hermione, “they were all useless after that night in the Department of Mysteries.” 

“Indeed, they were,” Dumbledore replied, his tone almost smug. “This time-turner is a relatively new one. A friend of mine, a most brilliant witch, created this one, making some improvements of her own on the design. The time-turner you were given in your third year, Miss Granger, had its limitations, do you remember?”

“It could only bring me back 5 hours into the past, any other amount of time and I would have been driven mad.” 

“Exactly! Hardly beneficial to what I hope to achieve in this adventure. Fortunately, this friend of mine managed to improve the original prototype of the time-turner, adding rune protections to the design that enables the time traveller to go back as far as 50 years. Quite brilliant!” The previous Headmaster clapped his hands, unable to contain his excitement. 

“Why haven’t you used it before now?” Questioned Hermione suspiciously. 

“Ah,” Dumbledore sighed, “unfortunately there is a five-minute rule. It will allow you to stay in the past for five minutes before automatically returning you to the point in time from whence you came. Furthermore, when it has been used once, it cannot be used again.” 

“Five minutes?” Hermione frowned, hardly conscious of the fact that she had already begun planning for all the possibilities, that she had already understood what Dumbledore asked of her and had made her decision. “That’s not enough time to achieve anything worthwhile. How can I be certain that the actions I make in those five minutes will lead to the result that I desire?” 

“As you say,” replied Dumbledore, “five minutes is not enough. This is not a proposition I would have you accept without some thorough thought, Miss Granger. It requires an immense sacrifice on your part.” 

There was only one way those five minutes could be increased, Hermione mused. The time-turner was set to return automatically after five minutes, it would be attuned to her magical signature, so no matter what happened it would bring her back with it. She would have to destroy it the minute she went back. Only by destroying it and its components could she prevent it from forcing her back to the future. That meant sacrificing her time though, to leave the home she knew for a remote past with no family or friends. 

“Doing this,” she began, drawing a deep breath as she turned to look at Dumbledore’s portrait, “If I do this, will it bring Harry and the others back to life?” 

“If you make the correct moves, Harry will never have died.” He shifted in his seat. “Of course, that does not mean you can change major events, Harry’s parents must Fodie, Harry has to face Voldemort, he has to fight him. The major events that lead to the result of today have to remain as they are, it is the little details you need to change.”

“And how do I do that?” She almost dreaded the answer. 

“You follow the example of Severus Snape.”

August 15th, 1965 

It was almost astonishing how simple it had been to establish herself in the wizarding society of 1965. Three months had passed since Hermione Granger had appeared in a dark and dirty alley and in that time, Hermione Shafiq had quickly been accepted into the pureblood society of Britain. All she had needed to do was give proof of blood and a potion, courtesy of Dumbledore, had taken care of that, changing her blood to identify her as a part of the Shafiq family. She had swiftly been taken under the wing of Druella Black (nee Rosier) who had been the sister of Carina Shafiq (nee Rosier), the mother of Hermione Shafiq and the wife of Caelum Shafiq. 

Hermione had done her research. She had discovered that Caelum Shafiq had been the last living member of his family. Romantically enough, he had married Carina, despite her family’s disapproval of the match. As a result of this, they had run away, and no one had truly known what became of them. A perfect story for Hermione to insert herself into. Acting as the long-lost daughter who had been raised away from pureblood society, and who, after the death of her parents, had decided to return to the society they had come from. Having been raised away from pureblood society, any mistakes she made would be excused and blamed on her unfortunate upbringing. 

Druella had been overjoyed to meet the daughter of her long-lost sister and had invited Hermione to stay with her and her family, refusing whenever Hermione tried to suggest anything else. So it was that Hermione got to know a fourteen-year-old, Bellatrix Black. 

It had been surreal to meet the younger version of the woman that haunted her dreams. She was beautiful, even though she was at that awkward age where her body was disproportionate, her limbs appearing too long for the rest of her frame. Moreover, Hermione was horrified to discover that she liked her. Her pureblood supremacy was not as extreme as it had been in Hermione’s time, Bellatrix had yet to be corrupted by her time spent as a Death Eater. Hermione had never realised how smart and interesting the witch was, until now. 

“Shouldn’t you be getting ready with your sister?” Hermione leaned on the doorframe, her arms folded across her stomach, fingers unconsciously stroking the smooth fabric of her dress. 

“What do I have to get ready for,” Bellatrix spoke, not looking up from the book she had her head buried in, “I never wanted this in the first place.” 

“The party is in your honour.” 

Bellatrix scoffed; her lovely features twisted in distaste as she looked up at Hermione. “In my honour? There is no honour in this. I am being sold like a broodmare, it’s not something to be celebrated.” 

“You are exaggerating,” murmured Hermione, straightening up and moving into the room to sit on the edge of Bellatrix’s bed. “It’s merely the announcement of your engagement, you won’t be married for many years yet. It’s a formality.” 

“A formality I will have to honour and go through with when the time comes.” Bellatrix sulked. 

“Is it really so bad?” Hermione reached out to smooth down the creases of the young witch’s bedding. “Rodolphus doesn’t seem to be a bad choice. He is smart, handsome and seems to be kind. You could do a lot worse.” 

It was bizarre, Hermione thought to herself, that she was sitting on Bellatrix Lestrange’s bed, encouraging her to marry the man who would once be known as one of the most dangerous wizards in the wizarding world. Bizarre that she could even stomach being in the same room as her would-be torturer. 

“Why don’t you marry him then, if you like him so much.” Spat Bellatrix. 

“Don’t be childish.” Hermione chastised her sharply, rising from the bed and moving towards the girl’s closet. “Now, let’s find you a dress. The guests arrive in two hours and we have a lot to do before that time.” 

Hermione ignored the glare aimed at her back as she sifted through the many dresses hanging in the closet. The colour scheme was, unsurprisingly, made up of a multitude of dark colours. Grabbing a suitable dress, she gestured for Bellatrix to get up and undress, bunching up the fabric of the dress as she prepared to drop it over Bellatrix’s dark head of luscious hair. 

“I don’t want to marry,” Bellatrix whispered, as she turned around to let Hermione lace up the back of her dress. “I don’t want to be like Mother, subjugated and dependant on a man.” 

“Bella,” Hermione sighed, her brown eyes softening as she focused on the movement of her deft fingers systematically lacing up the dress. “Marriage does not mean you lose your independence or that you become dependant of your husband. Just because your mother has chosen to defer to your father, does not mean that you will do so. Look at your Aunt Walburga and Uncle Orion, does your aunt defer to your uncle?” 

A soft laugh escaped the young girl. “The day Aunt Walburga listens to anything Uncle Orion has to say will be the day the world ends.” 

“Exactly!” Hermione exclaimed, tying the last tie of the dress before spinning Bella to face her, letting a gentle hand rest on her shoulder, Hermione smiled at her. “Even though this is a marriage you are forced into, you decide for yourself how that marriage will be. And if I know you as I think I do; you will never allow any husband of yours to control you. Rodolphus Lestrange will never know what hit him.” 

A small smile, stretched across Bella’s lips, “thank you, Hermione.” 

“Now, Hermione said, taking a step back. “Go help Narcissa get dressed, last I saw, she was panicking over what shoes to wear. Her goal of the evening is to outshine you, I fear, she is quite perturbed that they would hold such a party in your honour and not in hers.” 

“As if she could ever outshine me,” Bellatrix scoffed, though Hermione could see a soft light shining in her eyes, “not without my help, at least. I’ll go see to it right away.” 

She had been horrified, at first, to realise how normal the Black family truly was, how much they reminded her of the Weasleys with the constant quarrels between the sisters. Hermione had always imagined, helped along by the many stories Sirius had told Harry, that the Black family was a cold and unfeeling family, where their only focus was on dark magic and their support of the Dark Lord. In reality, despite their tendency to stick by horribly out-dated traditions, Hermione found them to be a warm and loving family. She almost thought herself fortunate to have been able to experience them as a family member, as the impression they gave in public widely supported her previous image of them. They made it far too easy for her to immerse herself in their world, and to adopt their way of thinking. An advantage, she had decided, considering how convincing she would have to be in order to be accepted by the Death Eaters. 

Hermione was always conscious of the reason for her being there, she never forgot her ultimate goal, and this party would be the first steppingstone to reaching her goal. According to Druella, some high standing Death Eaters, though she would never identify them as such, would be attending the engagement party of Bellatrix and Rodolphus. This would be a wonderful opportunity to begin the process of joining the Death Eaters. She could not be too obvious about it; Dumbledore had warned her. It was most unusual for any woman to be a part of the organisation. The traditional wizarding view on women had seen to that. In fact, even in her own time, female Death Eaters had been a rarity. She would have to prove herself worthy, would have to catch the attention of the Dark Lord and slowly work her way into their organisation while posing as a Pureblood Lady. The only way she would get to the Dark Lord, however, was by catching the attention of one of his lieutenants first. 

Coincidentally, this goal of hers coincided with her aunt’s wish of seeing her well situated. Druella Black wished to take care of her niece, and the only way she could think to do that, was by making sure that Hermione married well. It was perfect. According to wizarding etiquette, Hermione could not introduce herself to these men, especially considering that the men she would need to attract were quite a few years older than her. She was dependant on being introduced, and the only person that could do this for her was Cygnus Black, Druella’s husband. So, Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ engagement party, would be the first step in her plan to save Harry Potter.


	2. The First Meeting

Hermione stood at the back of the ballroom quietly, observing the many figures crowding the room. It was like something from a Jane Austen novel, the manners, the way of dancing and most of all the concept of introduction. Hermione had always known that the wizarding world was behind the muggle world in some respects. Though she had never known truly how far behind they were until now. The Weasley family had never been sticklers to tradition, in fact, they seemed to have cast off any sort of traditions that their pure blood should have encouraged them to keep. In retrospect, they had not been the most representative wizarding family, however kind and warm they had been. They were her ideal of what the perfect wizarding family should be like, though she was all too aware that few shared her view on this. 

It was almost archaic the way the sexes were encouraged to keep their distance from each other, unless they were properly introduced. The young women were gathered in groups, looked over by their mothers or any female family members. Whenever a young man approached, he was always accompanied by someone who was already acquainted with the young girl’s family. An unnecessary complication that made her difficult task even more difficult to complete. How could she come to know and catch the attention of the Dark Lord’s lieutenants if she couldn’t speak to them? 

“What are you doing, hiding here, dear?” Druella Black’s soft voice drew Hermione’s attention away from the dancing couples. 

“Just getting the lay of the land, Aunt Druella.” Said Hermione, straightening from her relaxed pose against the wall to face the beautiful woman. 

“You are far too much like your mother was,” Druella mused, “she always hated these parties, preferring to hang back so she could make her escape unnoticed.” 

“Not too much like my mother then,” Hermione replied, smiling fondly at the woman. “It’s a lovely party, I’m just hanging back to get my bearings. I’ve never attended one of these before, the parties I am used to are much less formal. It is intimidating.”

“Besides,” Hermione added with a smirk, “I am sure Bellatrix would never forgive me for stealing the attention away from her at her own engagement party.” 

“Oh, she most certainly would,” Druella countered, “I just caught her trying to leave. The party has only been going on for an hour and she, the guest of honour, has already tried escaping twice!” 

“As expected then,” Hermione quipped.

“Unfortunately,” Druella sighed, before her mood seemed to brighten as she said, “that’s not why I came over, though. It seems many young men have come up to Cygnus expressing an interest to become acquainted with you, my dear. I was sent to find you.” 

Hermione could feel her pulse quicken. She tempered herself though. Druella had said young men. The men Hermione was out to establish connections to would not, in Druella’s eyes, be considered young men. 

Making their way through the crowd, Hermione and Druella wandered across the room, locating Cygnus holding court by the large fireplace that decorated the ballroom. Hermione couldn’t keep from being disappointed at the low age of the men surrounding him. Based on appearance, the eldest could be no more than twenty-five. A perfect age for a girl of eighteen seeking a husband, but too young and inexperienced to suit Hermione’s purpose. They were a good place to start though, she needed every social connection she could get if she was to establish herself as a young witch worth knowing. Hermione could not afford to insult anyone. 

Yet, Hermione thought to herself, as she observed the many simpering young girls fluttering around the room, she would not seek to ingratiate herself. Her entire plan was dependant on her achieving a central position in the death eater ranks, no simpering girl would ever achieve that. No, Hermione had to display her wit and skills in magic. That was the only way she could achieve the recognition she needed from the people the Dark Lord surrounded himself with. 

Her aunt tugged lightly at the sleeve of Hermione’s dress as they came to a halt at Cygnus’ side, drawing her attention away from the room to focus on the three men who were looking at her with curiosity. 

“Ah, there you are, Hermione,” Cygnus said, his voice as gruff as always. “I hope we did not take you away from anything amusing?” 

“Oh, most certainly,” replied Hermione, moving forward to accept a kiss on the cheek from her uncle. “Though it hardly matters, I always find your company enjoyable, it more than makes up for any loss of amusement on my part, Uncle.” 

“Such a flatterer you are.” Cygnus commented, turning to the men in their company. “Gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to my lovely niece, Hermione Shafiq. Hermione, this is Morpheus Flint, Alexander Pucey and Ulrik Gamp.” 

“Wonderful to meet you.” Hermione murmured, giving a slight curtsey as they bowed to her. 

“We have heard so much about you, Miss Shafiq.” Ulrik Gamp immediately took charge of the conversation, his watery blue eyes seeming to devour her where she stood. 

“Have you?” 

“Most undoubtedly,” he assured her eagerly, “in fact, rumours have spread of your proficiency on the dance floor. Perhaps you would take a turn with me, so I might experience this proficiency first-hand?”

Taken aback, Hermione could do nothing but agree to sharing the next dance with him. His request had been very sudden, and she could practically feel the disapproval radiating from where her aunt stood beside her. A display of such forward behaviour was, as Hermione had learned upon researching pureblood customs, was simply not done, especially when first being introduced to a young lady. 

“Indeed,” Druella piped up, a slight hint of malice in her voice, “my Hermione is a wonderful dancer, but fortunately there is more to her than that. Any young woman should strive to be intellectual; don’t you agree Mr. Gamp? How insufferable it would be to be in the company of a young woman who cares for nothing more than how many turns she manages on the dance floor in the duration of one evening. Though I hear your younger sister is quite proficient in the activity.” 

Druella turned to look meaningfully at said sister who was currently enjoying herself with loud giggles on the dance floor. 

Mr. Gamp flushed, though he visibly rallied himself as he replied, “Intellect is, I agree, a necessity in any young woman. It does, however, need to be managed properly so it does not become obstinance and arrogance, a very unattractive trait in any young woman.” 

“And where do you stand on this, Mr. Flint?” Druella turned to the man in question, a tall, broad shouldered young man with a dark countenance. 

“Intellect is, of course, to be preferred in a young woman, and any arrogance or obstinance can easily be managed by a sensible husband.” 

“Really?” Hermione questioned, her back straightening as she could feel her temper rising. “Would you say that a wife should be subservient to her husband? That any behaviour the husband deems unseemly should be struck down on?”

“Any wife ought to realise that her position in the marriage is submissive and dependant. The husband provides for the wife, she should be grateful and defer to the husband on points they disagree on, she should realise that it is in her best interest to be managed and guided by her husband.” Morpheus Flint’s voice was firm, his jaw clenched as his eyes seemed to analyse Hermione. 

He did not seem impressed with what he saw, though that could have something to do with the words that rushed out of her mouth before she could contain them. 

“Are you married, Mr. Flint?” He shook his head curtly. “Perhaps you should find yourself an intellectual wife then. It is clear to me that you are in dire need of the right woman to manage you, perhaps then you would be guided to refrain from spouting such nonsense in decent company.” 

For a moment, Hermione thought he would strike at her. His eyes were nearly crackling with outrage, his hands clenched into fists and he appeared to take a step toward her when a new voice interrupted them. 

“What an interesting niece you have there, Cygnus.” It was a deep, almost soothing voice, heavy with amusement and tinged with a slight accent which she couldn’t quite place. “Such a fierce tongue and decided opinion.” 

Cygnus chuckled, moving forward to grab a hold of the newcomer’s hand, giving him a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Glad you could join us, Antonin. I feared you wouldn’t make it.”  
Antonin Dolohov was nothing like she remembered. When Hermione had first seen him (the scar on her chest almost gave a twinge at the memory), he had looked haggard. He was younger now, in his mid-thirties, and the face that had been so gaunt was filled in, revealing handsome features. He was just as tall as she remembered, though he looked more intimidating now. His broad frame was filled in, and Hermione could almost see the muscle straining under the fabric of his coat. 

“I almost didn’t,” replied Dolohov, stepping back from her uncle to turn those dark eyes on her, “though I am very glad I did. What a shame it would have been to have missed out on such a beautiful display of temper, Miss Shafiq.” 

“I’m glad I could be of entertainment, Mr…” she bit out, letting the words hang in the air, ignoring the lethal glare her aunt was sending her. Of course, she knew who he was. There was hardly a person in the room who didn’t based on the looks they sent in his direction. Nonetheless, they hadn’t been introduced, and because Hermione had apparently been living away from the pureblood society for most of her life, it would be unnatural for her to let on to any previous knowledge about him. 

“Dolohov, Antonin Dolohov.” He gave a slight bow, his voice once more dripping with amusement. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Shafiq. I have heard much about you.”

“All good things, I hope.” Hermione replied, struggling to reign in her temper. She was still outraged that he would find her opinion and her desire to put a chauvinistic man back in his place so amusing. 

“All good.” Dolohov confirmed, before adding, in a mischievous tone of voice, “so good that I was terribly worried you would be a bore. I am glad to see there is some fire in you after all. Well behaved ladies are so tedious.” 

“How refreshing,” Hermione drawled drily, ignoring Druella’s restricting hand snaking around her wrist, “a man who does not adapt to the traditional views on women. How long would it take, do you think, before being married to a rebellious wife would grow too tiresome for you and you chose to squash her fiery temper?” 

Dolohov stood up straighter, a smirk teasing at his lips. “Are you weighing the risk of pursuing me?” 

“Mr. Dolohov!” Druella gasped, finally having had enough at the direction their conversation had headed.

“Nothing to worry about, Druella dear.” Cygnus cut in, his eyes shining in amusement as he looked from his niece to his friend. “Merely Antonin’s ill-timed humour, I am sure he meant nothing by it.” 

“I apologize if I have offended you, Mrs. Black.” He sounded anything but apologetic. “Perhaps I can repent by asking Miss Shafiq for her hand in the next dance?” 

“That would be delightful, I am sure.” Hermione smiled smugly. “But I am afraid I have already promised the next dance to Mr. Gamp.” 

Ulrik Gamp straightened up as if someone had poked him sharply in the ribs, his chest puffing out proudly as he shot an almost smug look in Dolohov’s direction. 

Was that disappointment she could see in his dark eyes? No, it couldn’t be. Antonin Dolohov was, from what Hermione had understood, very sought after by the female population of the British pureblood society. He was used to women flaunting themselves at him, using various techniques to catch his attention. She couldn’t have interested him in such a short time, could she? It couldn’t possibly be that easy to achieve her goal. 

“Perhaps the next one, then?” He amended. 

“The next one.” Hermione agreed. 

The music in the room came to a lull, signalling the end of the current dance and the beginning of a new one. Ulrik Gamp looked expectantly at her, holding his hand out to escort her to the dancefloor.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.” Hermione nodded to Flint and Pucey, before turning her eyes on Dolohov. “I will be looking forward to our dance.” 

With that she took Mr. Gamp’s hand and he quickly ushered her away and to the dancefloor. All the while, Hermione was immensely aware of the intense gaze following her every move. This would be the most nerve-wracking dance she had ever danced. 

Thankfully, Gamp didn’t require much response when he was talking. He was eager to make a good impression and was inclined to think the very best of Hermione, so he thought nothing of the absentminded replies he received when he twirled her around the dancefloor. In fact, he thought it very fitting that such a young lady should become demure when they were alone. It improved his impression of her immensely. 

Hermione hardly registered what happened during their dance together. She was much too focused on the dance that would follow this one. She had always known that she would have to face Dolohov at some point in time. He was one of the Dark Lord’s lieutenants, after all. It was natural that Hermione would encounter him. It had never occurred to her that he would be receptive to her though. She had imagined that Mulciber or Nott would be open to her charm, that they would be her best bet at getting into the Death Eater ranks. They were, for a lack of better word, known to be led around by their cocks (despite already being married) and she had known that they would be the most susceptible of the four lieutenants. 

It was apparent that she would have to change her plans though. Turning away Dolohov would be idiotic. He was a powerful wizard. He was one of the Dark Lord’s most trusted advisors. How should she go about this though? She had already gained his attention; how could she keep it? 

With these thoughts churning in her mind, Hermione barely noticed that the dance was coming to an end. And by the time Gamp gave a bow and relinquished her hand, Hermione had become none the wiser to what was the best way of moving forward. 

“How wonderful you dance, Miss Shafiq.” Dolohov said as he grabbed her hand, immediately sweeping her into a dance as the music started to play. “Though I fear the conversation must have been horribly one-sided.” 

“How observant of you.” Hermione commented, looking straight into his eyes. “My dancing skills must be captivating indeed, if they could keep your attention for an entire dance.” 

“They were mesmerising.” He replied, moving his hands to hold her waist before lifting her up and twirling her in the air. Of course, the band had chosen the dance with the most contact required between partners, Hermione thought irately. “I am happy to hear that you have chosen to display your conversational skills as well though, perhaps I exhausted you with our talk before your dance with poor Mr. Gamp?” 

“Mr. Gamp entered into such an interesting topic that I found I could hardly interrupt him.” Hermione replied, defending the man despite herself, it wasn’t his fault that she had been so preoccupied, after all.

“Indeed?” Dolohov smirked. “Was it his delight in your appearance or his passionate talk about his ambitions to establish an apothecary that interested you so?” 

“What fantastic hearing you must have, Mr. Dolohov,” said Hermione, “to have heard so much of a private conversation between two people constantly moving around on the dancefloor.” 

“Ah,” he smiled, more genuine this time. “You mustn’t blame me for wanting to be aware of what goes on with the competition. To be frank, I find you fascinating, Miss Shafiq. I did not expect you to be such a bright witch when first Cygnus told me of you.” 

Hermione startled a bit at that, unable to believe that he would be so open with her, shocked that she would have made such a good impression on their first meeting when she had been nothing but hostile towards him. 

“I…” she began before falling silent. 

“Have I stunned you?” His smile turned smug. “Have you become speechless at my candour?” 

She gathered herself. “Of course not.” Hermione sent him a sharp smile. “I was just pondering how to pose a question without coming across as rude. I see now that you prefer candidness, so I will be direct. How many witches has that line worked on before? They must have been incredibly naïve to fall for something like that.” 

A loud laugh rumbled in his chest and he tightened his grip on her before turning her in the last twirl of the dance. His dark eyes sparkled when he looked at her, almost admiringly. “As I said, fascinating.”

The last tone of the violin rang through the room and he relinquished his hold on her waist. Transferring his grip to catch a hold of her hand instead, bowing to her before placing a delicate kiss on the back of her hand. “I hope to see more of you in the future, Miss Shafiq.” 

He left the room, leaving a flustered and confused Hermione in his wake.

Antonin Dolohov was a surprise, a dangerous surprise she did not know how to handle.


	3. Knockturn Alley

Chapter 3

Knockturn Alley

October 15th, 1965

From the moment she had begun this journey, Hermione had been very aware that it would not be an easy enterprise. She would face challenges and dangers, and for the first time in her life, she would face them alone. Hermione had prepared for that, had steeled herself in preparation of facing the loneliness that would no doubt ensue. She had been unprepared for facing the challenge that boredom would present, however. 

It was becoming more and more obvious to her, why Bellatrix detested the social parties her mother forced her to attend. Two months had passed since Bellatrix and Rodolphus’ engagement had been announced, and Druella had dragged Hermione to a total of 10 social gatherings in that time. The useful introductions Hermione had been hoping for were few and far between, and she had not met any Death Eater of note, other than Dolohov at that first party. The lack of progress was gnawing at her. 

To feel as if she was accomplishing something, Hermione had taken to holing herself up in the library. Spending hours researching dark magic, soaking up whatever spells and charms she thought might be useful in the future. After all, it would be beyond naïve of her to think that she would never have to perform a piece of dark magic once she had achieved the first step of her plan. She would have to maintain her position in the Death Eater ranks for decades, after all. 

“Should I be worried?” Cygnus’ deep voice interrupted her reading, drawing her attention away from a particularly interesting paragraph on the effects of the Drink of Despair. 

“Worried?” Hermione asked, marking her place on the page with a finger. 

“Yes, worried that my niece, the bell of the ball according to my wife, has taken to shutting herself inside a dark and stuffy library when she should be out enjoying herself.” He moved away from the doorway, taking a seat in the chair across Hermione. 

“I would say you should be glad you have a niece who is striving to improve her mind.” Hermione quipped, her mouth quirking into a smirk as she continued. “Believe me, I have seen the other young girls attending the social gatherings, their uncles should be worried by the rapidly deteriorating mental capabilities in their families.” 

“Always such a sharp tongue on you, Hermione.” He replied, dark eyes shining in amusement. “My wife will have trouble seeing you married, if you keep it up.” 

“Good,” said Hermione, shutting her book with a loud thud. “If any potential husband of mine is unable to handle my wit and intelligence, I hope Aunt Druella will see me an old spinster in the end.” 

Cygnus chuckled, “I hear you’ve had quite a few owl deliveries this last month. Is there anything I should be made aware of?” He sent her a meaningful look.

“Aren’t you already aware of it?” Hermione raised an eyebrow, moving away from Cygnus to replace the book. 

He shrugged. “I would prefer to hear it from you.” 

“Your friend has been sending me letters, but I’m sure he has already informed you of that.” 

“He has.” Cygnus confirmed. “How do you feel about it?” 

It would have been too much to ask for that Cygnus and Druella had not noticed the increase in letters Hermione had been receiving in the last month. Yet she had been hopeful that they would have waited a bit longer before mentioning it to her. She still had not decided what to do about it. 

“I don’t know.” She murmured. “I haven’t replied to any of them.” 

“I know.” 

“He seems very determined.” She added, biting her lips, and looking into Cygnus’ eyes. 

“I know that as well. He has been asking questions about you.” 

“He’s very forward,” Hermione sat down next to her uncle. “I don’t know whether to take him seriously or not.” 

“Does he frighten you?” Cygnus looked grave. 

“No,” Hermione replied. “It’s not that. It just seems odd to me that a man of his stature and age would pay attention to someone so young and as little established as me.” 

There was no denying that Antonin Dolohov had unnerved her during their first meeting. To begin with she had seen him as an opportunity to get a foot in, to further her plan. He was the ideal person to use, his position with the Dark Lord and the fact that he had made his interest in her all too clear after their meeting should have been irresistible to her. Yet she hesitated. Had refused to answer the letters he had sent in fear of going down a road that would doom her and her cause. 

It was odd. She had been so certain at the party that Dolohov was the way to go. That it would be wiser to use him, who had already shown an interest in her, than to start working on any of the other lieutenants. 

“Look, Hermione,” Cygnus began, giving her an awkward pat on the shoulder in an attempt at comfort. “I would never presume to demand that you do anything in a situation like this. My wife would have my hide should I rob her of that.” Hermione giggled. “I can, however, vouch for Antonin’s character. He is a good man. Though he can come across as very direct, he would never force you into anything.” 

“As if I could be forced.” Hermione scoffed, all too aware that Cygnus had hit a nerve. 

He seemed to know it too, as he sent her a knowing look. “What is holding you back then? Are you not attracted to him?” 

“I don’t know him. How can I be attracted to someone I don’t know?” 

“Get to know him then. Reply to his letters.” He gave her a final pat on the shoulder, rising from his seat and moving to the door. He stopped before exiting, turning around to give her a final comforting smile. “What is the worst that could happen?” 

October 30th, 1965 

It surprised her how much Knockturn Alley had changed from now to the time she had first visited it with Harry and Ron. The alley had seemed much more deserted then, so much more intimidating, and dangerous with people lurking in every creek and crevice. The alley she was wandering in now, almost teeming with life, albeit suspicious and dangerous looking life. Even so, it was clear that shopping in Knockturn Alley was not the taboo it had been in her time. 

She made sure to keep her hair covered with the hood of her cloak, keeping her head down so as not to draw too much attention to herself. Aunt Druella did not approve of young pureblood ladies going to such a gloomy and sordid place such as this. When Hermione had asked for permission to go there, she had been quick to offer a house-elf to complete her errand for her. Hermione had been quick to turn her down. It had become obvious to her that any visit she made to Knockturn Alley would have to be made secretly. 

She passed Borgin and Burkes, considering the shop for a moment before moving further into the alley. Somehow, the shadows seemed deeper here, more adept at hiding those who wished to pass by unseen. Taking advantage of this, Hermione moved closer to the brick buildings, moving further along until she finally reached her destination. 

The ring of a bell announced her arrival as she opened the dark door of Tallingworth’s Potent Elixirs. The shop seemed deserted except for the woman standing behind the counter. She looked to be in her late 50s, slight streaks of grey running through her otherwise dark hair, her alert brown eyes surrounded by crows’ feet. 

Somehow, Hermione had expected all the shopkeepers in Knockturn Alley to be like Borgin, stooping and oily, slyness radiating from his very being. The woman in front of her, did not fit in with that image. 

Hermione hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should ignore the woman or if she should look to her for assistance. She wanted to be done with this errand as inconspicuously as possible, yet the very nature of her errand called for haste. Asking the shopkeeper for assistance would draw attention, would make her more memorable. It would, however, also spare her any unnecessary time spent searching for the book. 

In the end, her haste won out and she stepped up to the counter, plastering a polite smile on her face. “Excuse me?” 

“Yes?” The woman’s voice was sharp and suspicious. 

“I’m looking for a book, a rather rare book and I was told I would most likely find it in your shop. You wouldn’t happen to have the first edition of Most Potente Potions, would you?”

The alert brown eyes narrowed, “as a matter of fact, I do. Now what would a young lady such as yourself need with such a dangerous book?” 

“It is purely for academic purposes I assure you,” Hermione replied, smiling innocently at the woman. “I have already read the second edition, but my tutor informed me that the first edition might contain some information that was omitted in the later publications. My interest was thus caught.” 

The shopkeeper hummed suspiciously but moved towards the back of the shop and retrieved the book, nonetheless. It was a thick book, bound in dark brown leather and notably larger than the edition Hermione had already read. She could feel her fingers itching to get a hold of it, could hardly wait to read it and discover all the new knowledge that had been deemed too dangerous for the second edition. 

Moments later, Hermione exited the shop, a warm feeling of accomplishment settling in the centre of her chest as she walked away from the obliviated shop keeper with her purchase hidden away in her purse.

Drawing her hood up over her head, Hermione was just about to apparate away when a firm hand grabbed a hold of her shoulder. 

“What an unexpected surprise.” Orion Black looked down at her, his dark eyes shining with amusement as he tightened his grip on her, keeping her from tearing free of him. “Does my brother-in-law know his young niece has strayed into the darkness of Knockturn Alley unsupervised?” 

Hermione straightened, turning to face him with a sharp comment on the tip of her tongue when she saw the young boy, no older than six years of age, standing to the right of Orion. He looked so young, so innocent, yet there was no mistaking Sirius Black, with his dark, tousled hair and his penetrating grey eyes. 

Hermione had known when she began this journey, that she would face ghosts of her past, yet the sting of her upon seeing Sirius alive and well still took her by surprise. She reigned in herself in for his sake, unwilling to lose her temper and frighten him. 

“Who says I need his permission? I am of age.” She pushed up her chin as she said it, her stubbornness shining out of her eyes. 

“Insolence,” Orion muttered, his grey eyes flashing with annoyance. “You live under his roof; you eat at his table and your every comfort is seen to by him. It is your duty to follow his will, to obey him and not to disgrace him by acting in a manner unfit of a young lady of your station.” 

He continued before she had the chance to reply. “I understand that your upbringing has been less than ideal,” he sneered at this, “but while you live under the protection of the Black family you are expected to behave as such. Strolling around Knockturn Alley without an escort is unacceptable.” 

He turned sharply, hand still grasping her shoulder as he called out to the boy beside him, “Come Sirius, it seems we will have to pay your Uncle a visit.” 

Before the boy had the time to grab a hold of his father’s other hand, a deep voice rang out from behind them. 

“There you are miss Shafiq! I hope I did not keep you waiting.” 

“Dolohov?” A dark eyebrow rising, was the only sign of surprise showing on Orion’s face. 

Dolohov moved across the street, holding his arm out for Hermione to grab a hold of, smoothly dislodging Orion’s grip on her as he drew her into him. He seemed even bigger than Hermione remembered him to be, she felt small next to him. 

“Good to see you, Orion.” Dolohov said as he settled his free hand to cover the hand resting on his arm, solidifying his, in Hermione’s eyes non-existent, claim on her. 

“Are you escorting miss Shafiq, Antonin?” Orion seemed less than impressed, his suspicious eyes drinking in every detail of the two standing before him. His lips tightened in dismay. “To Knockturn Alley of all places?” 

“Ah, Dolohov replied, seemingly unconcerned about the disapproval radiating off the man. “That was my fault, I’m afraid. I was enjoying a lovely luncheon in Diagon Alley with miss Shafiq here when I remembered a rather sensitive errand I needed to complete for a friend. I persuaded miss Shafiq to accompany me. My business took longer than expected and she must have wandered off in boredom. I do apologize.” 

“Hardly proper,” Orion commented.

“Indeed, an error on my part.” Dolohov’s manner seemed to become stiffer at the other man’s continued disapproval. 

“The man hummed considerately for a moment before seeming to come to a decision. “I’ll let you continue with your time together, but be warned Dolohov, I will be telling my brother of this. Miss Shafiq has been placed under the protection of the Black family; she is due the same respect you would pay any other young lady in our family.” 

With a final perusal of the couple before him, Orion gestured once more to Sirius. “Come, Sirius.” Before he disapparated on the spot. 

The loud crack of the apparition left behind a heavy silence that pressed down upon them. Hermione kept her gaze on the spot Orion had last been in, considering the possible consequences this encounter may have. Should Cygnus agree with his sister’s husband it was likely that Hermione’s freedom and movements would be limited. She needed freedom to complete her mission. Some major damage control would have to be done upon her arrival at home. 

Dolohov tightened his grip on Hermione’s hand before he started guiding her towards the exit of the Alley. “Orion Black has always been much more of a traditionalist than his brother-in-law, it is unlikely that Cygnus will agree with Orion.” 

“Is that supposed to be comforting?” Hermione replied sharply, her previously supressed temper surging at the ridiculous idea that these men thought they could control her life in such a way. 

Dolohov stiffened, his lip twitching in a half-suppressed snarl. “What were you doing here in the first place?” 

“None of your business.” Hermione bit back, staring straight ahead as she silently cursed herself. Dolohov had done her a favour. Had given her the perfect excuse to present to her Aunt and Uncle, and here she was, snapping at him as if it were his fault she had been caught.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione sighed after a few minutes of tense silence. “I shouldn’t take this out on you. Thank you for helping me back there.” 

A tickling sensation spread over the back of her hand as Dolohov’s thumb began stroking the soft skin there. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble. Should your Uncle choose to limit your movements it would severely limit my chances of being allowed to escort you to lunch on Friday.” 

“Really? Hermione snarked. “The improper behaviour of this wayward young lady has not scared you off?”

Dolohov abruptly stopped walking, urging her to turn and face him. His dark eyes were compelling in their intensity as they stared down into her own. “Never. I thought I had made this clear to you in my letters, miss Shafiq, but it seems I must be blunt. You have captured my interest and I intend to pursue that interest until its fruition or extinction.” 

Hermione almost stopped breathing at the frankness of his statement. She had done nothing, absolutely nothing, to encourage his interest. She had been shamefully reserved, considering the objective of her trip to the past, and she hardly felt deserving of this attention, of the ease in which her plan had come to pass. 

“I see.” She did not know what else to say.

By the time she had come up with a reply they had reached Diagon Alley and he cut her off before she could utter her carefully crafted reply. 

“I will leave you here then. I’ll be in touch with your Uncle regarding the arrangements of lunch.” 

And with a curt bow, he disappeared in the crowd. Leaving a speechless Hermione behind, unable to remember agreeing to lunch in the first place and outraged at the presumption of pureblood males.


	4. I promise

October 15th 1965

It was not until she reached the quiet of her rooms that Hermione allowed herself a moment to breathe. Antonin Dolohov had rescued her. Dolohov, the mad Death Eater who had nearly killed her and scarred her from naval to shoulder, had acted as her knight in shining armour. Albeit, a knight carrying a rather dark armour, the kind you would expect to see on the villain in any sort of love story. Moreover, he had been far from selfless, managing to secure the date he had been opting for in his letters. So perhaps he was more of an antihero, lacking the moral compass of the hero, but performing the heroic deeds, nonetheless. 

And why on earth was she even contemplating this? The issue of what kind of hero Dolohov was could hardly be considered important when she was, no doubt, facing a heap of trouble when Aunt Druella caught wind of where Orion had seen her. Not to mention, whose company she had been seen in. There would be no talking her way out of this one, she was sure. And perhaps it would be better if she did not. If she saw this as a way of having the decision made for her. This way, she would have to settle for using Dolohov to gain access to the Dark Lord. 

Hermione retrieved her purchase and hid it under the mattress of her bed, making sure to conceal it with an intricate concealment charm. Drawing a deep breath, she exited her room, determined to talk to her Aunt and Uncle before Orion could have time to spin his version of the tale to them. In her experience, offense was the best defence.

The stairs seemed to creak ominously as she headed down, the shadows deepened, as if they were seeking to intimidate her, to keep her from completing her objective. While the home of Cygnus and Druella Black could in no way compare to the doom and gloom of number 12 Grimmauld Place, there was no denying that the house did have a certain intimidating element to it. It had never been clearer to her than now. 

Hermione could hear the low murmur of voices coming from the sitting room and headed there. Clenching and unclenching her hands as nervousness and anticipation settled deep in her chest. She had not been this nervous since the Yule ball. 

“It is not something that can be ignored, Druella.” Cygnus’ deep voice sounded unusually tense, and Hermione immediately halted outside the door, drawing back the hand she had outstretched towards the doorknob.

“Why not?” Druella replied, her voice fierce. “What hold does he have over you? None. What allegiance do you owe him? None.” 

“Even so, a connection to him could be beneficial. He has gained great influence among the other families, an influence that is only growing, if the rumours are true. Co-operating with him can only be beneficial to us, my dear. Think of our daughters, think of what this could mean for them in the future.” 

“He is half-blood.” Druella spat the words in disgust. 

“Those are mere rumours; they have not been confirmed.” Cygnus was quick to reply. 

“Yet he has made no move to disprove them. I will not have you bowing before an inferior Cygnus!” 

“There will be no bowing.” Cygnus’ voice was sharp and disapproving, “I will take no oath. I will merely provide support in the Wizengamot should he need it.”

“And what of Hermione?” Druella questioned. “Is she a part of this deal as well? Is she expected to provide support in the Wizengamot as well? Will she be hounded for the seat she has inherited?”  
“Hermione has not been mentioned, yet.” 

Druella snorted, and Hermione could almost imagine the venomous look she sent her husband in that moment. “I will not have it, Cygnus. Involve yourself and your household if you must, but my niece shall be kept out of it!” 

“From what I understand she will not be able to keep out of it for long.” Cygnus replied cryptically.

“And what do you mean by that?” Druella’s voice was ice cold. 

“Antonin is an avid supporter of the cause, and it seems he is rather invested in our dear niece. Should she choose to return said investment, something I believe to be likely, it is a matter of time before she is as involved as the rest of us.”

Druella laughed scornfully. “She has no interest in that man, he is far too old for her.” 

“Yet he has sent me a letter, asking for my permission to take her out for lunch while assuring me that our niece has already agreed to it.” 

Hermione hurriedly backed away from the door, suppressing the twinge of annoyance that urged her to storm into the room and deny everything. She had, in fact, agreed to it. Yet it bothered her that Dolohov and her Uncle communicated so openly about it. As if she were a chess piece, manipulated into the very position they both wanted her.

Dolohov had certainly not wasted any time. He had been quicker than she had anticipated, robbing her of the chance to break the news to her Aunt and Uncle herself, to feed them the version of events that suited her best. The murmur of voices from the sitting room could still be heard as she retreated towards the kitchens, growing fainter and fainter with every step she took. She needed a cup of tea. Something to calm her down. The situation with Dolohov would have to run its course, it was the new piece of information she had just stumbled upon that she had to focus on. 

In the summer before her 5th year, she had spent quite a few hours in conversation with Sirius. She had been eager to get to know Harry’s godfather, anxious to understand the man who would be the closest thing her best friend could ever come to a parent. In those conversations, he had revealed his family’s participation in the war. She had been surprised to learn that apart from Bellatrix and Regulus, his family had mostly kept out of the conflict. Choosing to remain neutral instead of involving themselves. Turns out Sirius had not been as knowledgeable as she had thought. 

“Miss Hermione!” A squeaky voice called out as she crossed the threshold of the kitchen. Small hands immediately moved to guide her towards the kitchen table, making sure that she was comfortably seated before conjuring a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate cake. Her favourite. 

What did this mean for her mission? It would be beneficial to have another connection to the Dark Lord through Cygnus, yet the fact that she had not been aware of this information unnerved her more than she cared to admit. It robbed her of the haven she had fooled herself into believing existed within the walls of this house, the safety she had deludedly believed in. Yet, what had she expected? There was no safety on the path she had chosen to tread.

She continued musing to herself, her tea growing cold by the time she took her second sip. It was not until the sound of another pair of feet, heavier and louder than that of the house elves, entered the kitchen that she shook herself out of it. 

“I have given my permission.” It was Cygnus. She had expected her Aunt. 

“For what?” Hermione replied, deciding to feign ignorance. 

He sent her a knowing look. “I have given my permission for Antonin to accompany you to lunch this Friday, he assured me that you had already agreed.”

“He certainly is efficient. I believe I agreed to it but 3 hours ago.” 

Cygnus moved to join her at the kitchen table, immediately grabbing for the cup of tea that appeared before him. Barely batting an eye at the efficiency of his house elves. He sipped at it, seeming to gather himself before he turned to face her. 

“I know you are uncomfortable with the way things are done here. You grew up without the limitations a young girl of your blood and status would be used to. You were given freedom where you would have had none had you been raised here in England. I am aware that it rubs you the wrong way, having to run matters such as this by me, but it is for your protection.” His voice was so gentle, so careful, as if he were speaking to a skittish colt ready to bolt at the slightest sign of danger. “There are certain dangers—no, forgive me my poor choice of word. I mean, there are certain challenges young women face in a courtship with a man so much senior than her. Challenges that are better faced with guidance from a senior member of her family.” 

“I know how to take care of myself.” Hermione pointed out. “My mother did not raise a helpless, dim-witted girl.” 

“A girl does not have to be dim-witted nor helpless to be tricked and abused by a man with more experience in life than her.”

“Abused?” Hermione repeated, appalled. “Are you saying Dolohov is likely to abuse me?” 

“No.” His voice was firm. “I am saying that there are well-founded reasons why you have to put up with my interference and needing my approval for this courtship. Antonin is one of the most honourable men I know, but many honourable men have become disenchanted with their chosen intended. Losing interest and abandoning them to shame and ridicule. Allow me to help you in this, Hermione, so you are not taken advantage of.” 

“What if I agree to this, and change my mind at a later point in time?” She could not resist asking. There was no doubt in her mind that she would go through with the courtship. The time for indecisiveness was over, she had made up her mind. Even so, it was interesting to see where he stood. How much she could rely on him should things be difficult in the future. 

Cygnus let go of his teacup, turning to gently grab a hold of Hermione’s hand, as if it were the most precious thing he had ever handled. His hand dwarfed hers, engulfing her slender fingers as his thumb gave gentle strokes to the back of her hand. “I would never force you into anything you do not wish for, Hermione. Should you discover Antonin to be unsuitable, I would never stand in your way.” 

October 16th, 1965

“He’s so old though.” Bellatrix’s sharp voice uttered, ringing loudly in the room, uncaring that they were in the library. That Hermione had been reading silently before the sudden intrusion. 

“What does that matter?” Hermione replied absentmindedly, attempting to continue reading the book she had been enjoying before her cousin burst into the room. 

“Well,” She began, her tone growing wicked as a wide grin spread across her face. “You’ll have to bed him at some point. What if everything is all loose and flabby? How could you stand it?”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione put down the book with a sigh. “For goodness sake, Bella! The man is 34.” 

The dark-haired girl shrugged her shoulders, “That’s old.” 

“It’s not.” Hermione insisted. 

“He’s fifteen years older than you.” Bellatrix pointed out, moving to sit at the grand piano situated in the far corner of the room. Stroking the tangents without making a sound. “In theory, he is old enough to be your father.” 

“In theory, your engagement could mean the end of your education, and the beginning of your life as a miserable housewife and broodmare.” Hermione snapped, glaring at the younger girl. “Perhaps you should focus more on your own situation than mine.” 

She did not regret the words, but she did hesitate upon seeing the struck look on Bellatrix’s face. It was not fair of her to play upon the insecurities she knew Bella had been nursing related to her betrothal. Especially considering what she knew of how Bellatrix’s life would turn out. 

“I’m sorry.” Hermione rose from her seat, embracing the young girl. “I shouldn’t have said that. Of course, you will not end up as a broodmare. Rodolphus knows you better than that. He would never be able to control you.” 

“He’s been writing to me.” Bellatrix returned the embrace, her slender fingers clutching at the fabric Hermione’s dress, wrinkling the delicate silk. 

“Has he?” Hermione murmured. “And what has he been writing?” 

“He’s been writing about the Dark Lord.” There was a hint of admiration colouring Bellatrix’s voice. 

“I see.” Hermione began stroking Bellatrix’s back, seeking to prolong the embrace so the girl would not see the tension on her face. “And what does he have to say about the Dark Lord?” 

“He’s strong, more skilled in the dark arts than any wizard since Salazar Slytherin himself. He says it is amazing to bare witness to his intuitiveness, its as if his magic is instinctive.” She drew a breath, drawing back from Hermione to stare into her eyes. Bellatrix’s eyes were dark pools glowing with admiration and awe. “He knows wandless magic, Hermione. Imagine that, not being dependant on your wand. Being free to practice magic whenever you need it.” 

It was no wonder, Hermione mused, as she stared at the young, impressionable girl before her, that Voldemort had become so powerful in her time. 5 years remained before the first wizarding war would come to fruition. 5 years until he reached the peak of his power, and he had already managed to make such an impression on his future followers. 

“I should have been born a boy.” Bellatrix suddenly muttered, her voice heavy with bitterness. “Then I could have joined him, fighting for the cause, for our traditions.” 

Hermione sighed, reaching up to cradle Bellatrix’s face in her hand, her thumb stroking gently across her cheek as she smiled at her cousin. “It doesn’t matter that you’re a girl. You are skilled and you will grow even stronger. You will show them. And when you do, even the Dark Lord will not be able to ignore you. I promise.”


End file.
